The Black Journal
by kanasvetlana
Summary: A little bit sho-ai. What's with the black journal? Don't be fooled by genre below. Sorry, I'm kinda suck with summary.


Disclaimer : I do not and will never own all stories and characters of Sherlock Holmes. All those properties belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Summary

_Holmes's stuck on Valentine Day._

A/N

_Well hello all beloved readers! I'm a newbie here. I'm terribly sorry for my bad English and wrong scenes. This is my first fanfic in this fandom, and kinda short. Don't like short fics? You better not read and please don't give me flames ^_^_

Happy Reading!

Tomorrow would be 14th of February. Valentine Day. Yeah, the day of love when you give chocolates and gifts to somebody you love.

Well, that was one of Sherlock's hardest part. He had already bought a gift. A fairly small black diary which was more like a journal book. He thought that this would be very useful for those who accepted it. Nah. Who would accept that? That's what he was thinking about for an hour in this morning. He couldn't decide for whom the journal was.

No, this wasn't about somebody he loved. Valentine wasn't just for lovebirds, was it? As he knew, he never fell in love. Irene Adler was the only woman he could respect and remember. He never forgot how she blinked her eye to him when he's about to be defeated on a boxing match. But he never desired her although he couldn't recall any women on his mind but her.

How about Victor Trevor, his only friend when he was in college? He never heard about him again after he helped him to reveal the secret of Victor's father's last letter, about the tragedy of Gloria Scott ship. He didn't think that was a good idea. Even the detective himself didn't sure that Victor was still living in the same house which was quite far from Baker Street 221B.

He got up from his chair and took a deep breath. There wasn't any interesting cases. Feeling bored, he stared the black journal on his table before taking his gun. Before he shot some bullets to make 'VR' on the wall, a figure of a man he knew well appeared clearly in his mind.

John Watson. The young and tidy doctor who once had lived with him in the same flat for several years. After he married Lady Morstan, he moved to and worked as a doctor on Paddington. Although not very often, Watson sometomes threw a visit to him. Well, after weeks without the doctor knocking his door, finally Holmes admitted that he missed his voice telling him not to have his documents messing around.

He put down his gun. Watson had warned him about shooting the wall could bother their neighbors. That time, Holmes replied him that this wouldn't harm anyone, and kept bursting out the bullets until his 'VR' had done. So Watson just left him to his own room without saying anything. He wasn't angry –after the sound of bullets were gone he would go again to Holmes' room. But however, finally he could deal with this situation without leaving Holmes and just keeping silent. No doubt that Holmes was so lucky to have a flatmate like him. And the older man knew this.

Sometimes it would be a good idea to obey his ex-flatmate's advice. Wasting bullets wouldn't help him to decide for whom the book was. It just made him thinking more about Watson.

That's it –Watson! Why didn't he think about this before? The young doctor was always kind to him, and they've been getting along together for years. Well, always, although he was often kinda unpatient and sensitive. Always...

'What I do take issue is you campaign to sabotage my relationship with Mary.'

Sabotage wasn't a suitable word to explain what Holmes' purpose ruining their first dinner with Mary. And he didn't mean to. That's because the lady asked him. He knew he didn't have to reveal all the things.

He was just... jealous. A little bit. He couldn't forget how his feeling was when he concluded that Watson was in love with her, and realized that he and Watson wouldn't be together forever.

"Stop thinking and start doing something," he said to himself, walking to Watson's ex-room for a piece of white paper. He had decided. What's so wrong? Even though Watson probably had gotten something from his wife, a gift from an old friend could be very special. Having pen on his right hand, Holmes had to think again before writing on the paper which would be attached as a greeting card on the journal.

'Happy Valentine Day, Watson.

PS : I love you.'

Hell no.

Holmes predicted that those sentences could make Watson assumed him wanted a reply on White Day. And why did he write those three words in the end of the message? Beside their friendship could be shut down due to the awkwardness, Mary Watson would kill him. He went to Watson's ex-room again for another paper and stared the room for a while.

Many things changed since the younger man left him. Watson himself was surprised when he saw many 'red lines' that outstretched almost all over the room and ended on Moriarty's photo. The room, or just say, the whole flat felt very different without Watson who sometimes tried to stop Glaston wandering around.

Recalling those memories on his head, Holmes started to write again. Yeah, this time, he wrote it on the journal. He didn't want to give it directly, but Watson took it by himself after reading that note. So he set his curtains to let less sunlight in a spesific place and turned off the lamps. As soon as everything's done, he took his violin and played it on the corner of his room, out of everybody's sight.

Minutes later, someone knocked the door. Holmes didn't reply. He recognized the sound of the man's shoes walking on the floor. Just like what he predicted, the outsider opened his door slowly, and came in.

John Watson.

"Holmes?"

"Don't turn on the light."

Holmes' fingers continued playing an old Irish-style fiddler song while Watson was puzzled. Why did he like to keep his room dark, and what's with the curtains? Trying to look for his friend, Watson's eyes accidentaly saw the sunlight fell like a spotlight focusing to something on Holmes' table.

A black journal. There was a paper on the top of it. Watson needed a few minutes to realize that the light couldn't be focused on the book if Holmes didn't set those curtains like that.

"What's that? A new case?"

The doctor walked slowly to the table in the dark and took the journal yet the paper. He read the paper and sighed, then a soft 'thank you' whispered slowly from his lips.

'For my dearest friend whom I am very grateful to,

Dr. John H. Watson.'

End of Black Journal


End file.
